


Bloodsicles and Bay Leaves

by Zingiber



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biology, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hand-holding abounds, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, animal courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: When Sherlock struggles to ask for John's hand in marriage, he turns to the animal kingdom for inspiration.  Biology may be the key to John's heart - or it may kill them both.





	Bloodsicles and Bay Leaves

On a cool, tepid-gray morning in February, Sherlock wakes to the fresh scent of herbs.  Eyes shut, he drags in a breath, savoring the cozy, slightly fusty aroma and all the mental images tethered to it – steam unfurling from an RAMC mug; rain-stippled windows and slate skies beyond the glass; the scrape of damp wool on his nape as he turns up his collar against autumn sleet.  It is the scent of comfort, of warmth, and Sherlock burrows in, waiting for the fog of sleep to reclaim him. 

Until his other senses swarm in, dropping a chilly realization that snaps him to full alertness: that he is alone in the bed, the space beside him a pocket of cold absence.  The only sounds in the room are that of his own soft breathing and an undercurrent of traffic whisking down the road outside.  He reaches a hand out, starfishing, and feels creased sheets bunch under his palm.  Not even a trace of warmth remains. 

Sherlock opens his eyes.  Morning light streams through the window and pools across the ceiling, washing the damask-printed walls pale.  He stretches long and languid, hips twisting and arms thrown over his head.  He yawns so powerfully the hinge of his jaw creaks. 

The door opens and a voice murmurs, “Oh.  You’re awake.”

Sherlock stills.  Then he props himself up on his elbows and squints at the form of John Watson in the doorway.  “John.”

John crosses the room, two steaming cups of tea in his hands.  The morning light smooths out the creases on his face and brings out slivers of brown-gold in his hair.  Setting the cups down on the nightstand, he sits on the bed and feathers his fingers along the edge of the duvet.  “Good morning, love.”

“Could be better,” Sherlock mumbles.  “This bed is awfully dull without you in it.”

John chuckles.  “That’s… infallible logic, yeah.  Certainly wasn’t dull last night.”

Sherlock hums and brushes his fingers over John’s, pushing down the duvet. He’s naked underneath and his muscles are smoldering with a soreness from the night before.  “Well, then.  Help me sort it.”

“Bossy.”  John leans in, tipping up Sherlock’s chin for a kiss.  Warmth spreads from Sherlock’s chest to simmer through his blood, through his limbs, down to his fingertips as they brush through the hair at John’s nape, pulling him closer, closer.  His lips part on a sigh and John’s tongue flickers against his, tasting. 

He draws back and makes a face.  “Morning breath.  Lovely.”

“Don’t be puritanical,” Sherlock says.  “You had your tongue in some utterly heinous places last night.”

“I had the decency to brush my teeth,” John says.  His fingers tug at the duvet, dragging it down to Sherlock’s knees.  He thumbs the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, teasingly close to his prick.  Sherlock sucks in a breath and he smiles.  “Still think bed is dull?”

“John.”  Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair and John steals another kiss: chaste, brief. His lips trail down Sherlock’s throat, skirting a path down his sternum, down his belly.  His name breaks on Sherlock’s tongue as he moves lower, lower. “J-John.  Joh- _nngh.”_

-

Later, as they lie in bed sipping lukewarm tea, John asks, apropos of nothing, “Did you sleep well?”

Sherlock lowers his teacup with a distracted frown.  “Hmm?”

“Sleep, Sherlock.  Did you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says warily.  “Obviously I slept.  I do believe you were there, sleeping right next to me.  You do that quite a lot, lately.”

John rolls his eyes, but the asperity of the expression is rather diminished by the disgust that flashes across his face after another gulp of tea. It’s a cinnamon blend with notes of maple, chosen among a veritable army of tea Sherlock purchased for an experiment. Said experiment was abandoned when a tantalizing double-homicide involving a high-end French restaurant and the sous-chef’s preferred whisking technique came along.  They have been working through discount blends of tea ever since.

Sherlock takes a sip and purses his lips.  Ghastly. 

“Right.”  The levity in John’s tone is carefully-calculated to minimize suspicion, and that math captures Sherlock’s interest.  “Any interesting dreams?”

Sherlock’s frown deepens.  He and John rarely talk about their dreams.  They have spent years tiptoeing around each other, pretending the whimpers and shouts in the wee hours are too soft to bleed through the walls, pretending the silken notes of the violin and the cups of Earl Grey and paracetamol tablets beside the microscope are coincidences, snags in the fabric of the universe.  Even now, after a year of sharing a bed, they are still hesitant to share this vulnerability with each other.  It’s easier, late at night, in the dark – whispered confessions and choked voices take on a dreamy hue, easy to dismiss in the light of day.  All the same, Sherlock can count the number of times they have confided in each other about nightmares on both hands.

“No,” he says, watching John closely.  “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason.”  John’s voice is perfectly neutral.  Sherlock scrutinizes him as he sets down the teacup, gaze averted.  His hair is tousled, a wreck from Sherlock’s grasping, tugging fingers.  With gold-dappled tufts sticking every which way, he looks boyishly rumpled.  “Just… curious, I suppose.”

Sherlock stares incredulously at him.  “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”  Sherlock scowls in mock reproach.  “You can’t fool me, John Watson.  I’m the world’s only consulting detective.”

“I don’t know.”  John shrugs, an offhand gesture belied by the wicked glint in his eyes.  He tugs the teacup from Sherlock’s hands, sets it aside, and reaches across to brush his fingers down the planes of Sherlock’s bare chest.  His thumb skates over the florid edge of a bruise, shiveringly close to a nipple. Sherlock sucks in a breath as his mind replays the past hour in crystalline clarity.  John’s voice, husky and low, echoes the memories.  “I think I could distract you.  Pull the wool over your eyes.”

There is nothing to be done with John, Sherlock decides, but to drag him into a kiss. John goes laughing, laughing into Sherlock’s mouth, laughing until Sherlock’s touch unravels him.

 

-

 

It’s a plague, this thought: it will not relent. 

Sherlock stands at the window of their sitting room, violin perched under his chin, bow gliding over the strings as the thought burns feverish through his blood.  It has been a year since he and John began sharing their bed – a year since a case cut too close, since the band of tension between them stretched to the snapping point, since angry shouting collapsed into angry tears and angry tears dissolved into frantic  confessions. Sherlock would be lying to himself if he thought he had only been harboring the thought – the _plague_ – for that single, wonderful year. 

It comes to him at the simplest and most sinister times – a shock that knocks the breath from his lungs.  Maddening.

Today, it is takeaway placed on the table beneath the cow skull.  John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, the soft, barely-there pressure drawing him back to shore.  Sherlock blinks.  “John.”

“Sorry,” John says.  “Didn’t mean to interrupt you.  But I’ve got to go to the clinic.  Make sure you eat that, yeah?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock says, aggrieved. 

“Brilliant.”  John swipes a thumb over one of his cheekbones.  “See you later, sweetheart.”

Sherlock stands motionless, bow hovering over the strings until he hears the front door to 221 open and shut.  As John’s short figure ambles off to the Underground, he turns away from the window, heartbeat drumming behind his ears.  It’s ridiculous how strongly John’s pet names affect him.  _Love_ thrills through his heart, floods his veins with molten gold.  _Sweetheart_ fizzles like an electric current through his mind, deadening his wits.

Lowering his violin, Sherlock gives in to the hunger clawing at his belly and walks to the table.  The takeaway box contains crisps, a spinach salad, and a wrap stuffed with chicken, bacon, cheese, and veg.  A zing of chili sauce snaps across his tongue with the first crunching bite. 

His guard is down when the plague strikes yet again.  When he swallows the first mouthful of wrap and thinks _I want John to marry me,_ he is – for perhaps the thousandth time – gobsmacked. 

-

He might have got on with his life if not for bloody Animal Planet. 

Sherlock had stumbled across Animal Planet just last week, in the midst of a hunt for a zookeeper at London Zoo’s Tiger Territory.  The zookeeper had been missing for days.  After scouring Animal Planet’s Youtube channel, Sherlock believed he knew where the zookeeper had gone:  directly into the bellies of the tigers, chopped into pieces and frozen in the apex predators’ favorite treats.  

 _“Bloodsicles?”_ John had asked, appalled. 

“Indeed,” Sherlock beamed.  “Ingenious, isn’t it?”

“Bloody psychotic,” John said, then winced at his choice of words.  “Urgh.”

“The fecal tests should prove my theory,” said Sherlock, “but that will take a few weeks.  Apparently, separating DNA from bloodsicles is a tricky business.  But I’m certain I’m right.  The murderer’s mistake was including the neck of a femur in one of the bloodsicles.  Too short to be bovine.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John muttered.  “That’s repulsive.”

“This YouTube channel is a treasure trove of knowledge, John.  This zookeeper on the tiger video is very knowledgeable about bloodsicles.  She probably picked up a knack for it when she worked on her father’s hog farm.”

“Could you stop using that word?”

“Have you seen this channel, John?  It’s incredibly informative.”  Sherlock ran his finger over the mousepad, selecting a new video.  “This one is about giraffes giving birth.”

John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to watch.  As the newborn giraffe wobbled to its feet on the screen, he chuckled. 

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Adorable,” said John.

“It’s simple biology, John.  Science. Science isn’t _adorable.”_

“Wasn’t talking about the giraffe,” said John fondly.  He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, patted his shoulder, and puttered into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Since the zoo case began, Sherlock has devoted himself to the study of animals.  Now, he finds himself watching a BBC documentary on Adélie penguins _(Pygoscelis adeliae)_ – purely for research purposes, of course. 

“The mating season has begun, and this male Adélie penguin has only one thing on his mind,” says the narrator, salaciously. 

“Mating, obviously,” says Sherlock.

“Romance,” the narrator corrects. 

Sherlock scowls.  “What rubbish.  Penwings have no concept of romance.”

“The male presents a pebble to his lady love as part of courtship,” the narrator continues.  “If she accepts him, they will add the pebble to their nest, and the two are mated for life.”

Sherlock stills, the narrator’s old, fussy tones intertwining with the thought that has been plaguing him to form a mad sort of sense.  He is no novice at romance – the past year with John has ensured that much.  He knows John loves him, knows it like he knows the mechanisms that knit together organic molecules, knows it with the same breath-stealing certainty as cyanide choking off the electron transport chain. 

But affirming that love, _legitimizing_ it… the very idea sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.  He wants it, of course he wants it.  He is plagued by it.  But John was married once before, and it ended in a noxious conflagration of bitter regret.  John loves Sherlock, but he may not want to marry him.  Sherlock must tread lightly.  If he is to determine the answer to this particular puzzle, he must remove himself from all emotion.  Better to rely on something impartial, quantifiable. 

Sherlock continues to stare at the laptop, a plan coalescing before his eyes. Before John, he had thought love was a chemical defect.  But perhaps his perception had been too narrow, his mind too unyielding for the unbiased scope of scientific research.  This is love, he realizes, stripped down to the barest essentials permitted by a cold, unfeeling world.  Natural. Animalistic.

It is, in short, biology.  Science. 

Sherlock’s fingers are swift on the mousepad, selecting another video from the playlist.  He has research to do.

-

The Adélie penguins seem a fine place to start, although Sherlock chooses to omit the little tuxedoed devils’ more infamous behaviors.  John may appreciate Sherlock contributing metaphorical pebbles to their nest, as it were, but he will most certainly _not_ appreciate necrophilia.  Or any of the other atrocities the penguins are known to commit. 

No, Sherlock resolves, he will stick with the pebble concept.  It’s the least likely option to send him to prison. 

There are innumerable ways their “nest” could be improved, so Sherlock sets about finding the perfect pebble.  He certainly isn’t lacking for options.  John is always whinging about the havoc his experiments wreak upon the flat.  _“For God’s sake, Sherlock, get a fume hood if you’re going to be playing with hydrochloric acid!”  “I think one smiley constitutes enough bullet holes in our walls, love.”  “Well, since you ignored my advice and brought home three corpses-worth of human liver, you can explain the formalin stain on the carpet to Mrs. Hudson.”_

John is lucky Sherlock loves him.  He wouldn’t have retained a word of all that moping otherwise.

Later that evening, John returns from a shift at the clinic, oblivious to the newly-pebbled nest he is about to find.  Sherlock, busy at the hob, glances over his shoulder when he hears the front door close.  “Kitchen.”

John appears in the kitchen doorway, arms laden with the shopping. The weary creases of his face are smoothed with wide-eyed shock.  “Oh. Wow.”

Sherlock purses his lips.  “What.”

“This is.  This is certainly something.”  John crosses the room, looking rather dazed, and sets the bags on the kitchen table. “Everything is so…”

“Tidy,” Sherlock supplies, a swell of pride filling his chest.

“No,” John says abstractedly.  “That’s not it.”

Sherlock frowns and reaches for the sliced loaf of challah bread on the counter. He dunks the bread into the milk and egg mixture and slaps it onto the frying pan.  As grease and egg yolk pop and spit, a cinnamon scent wafts into the air. “Neat?  Pristine?”

“Um.”  John bites the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile.  “Sterile.”

Broadly speaking, Sherlock is above the drudgery of homemaking, but he can’t help feeling a bit stung by that comment.  After deciding on the penguin route, he had cleaned the flat in a frenzy. Every experiment was set aside, all hazardous substances sealed in their designated containers.  The carpets were hoovered, the floors swept and scrubbed. The bed was made with starch-cornered neatness.  Billy the skull had been spruced up, polished from frontal to occipital bones. Sherlock had even wiped away the dust on the bookshelves, contenting himself with the knowledge that more would settle eventually, a map of scuffs and fingerprints charting their lives together.

Well.  He might have got carried away.    

Sherlock swallows down the sour smack of anxiety.  “I made dinner.”

“God.”  John walks around the table and comes to Sherlock’s side.  He peers at the frying pan, eyebrows climbing.  “Wonders never cease.”

“Always the tone of surprise,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Smells great.”

“Obviously,” says Sherlock.  “It’s only eggy bread.  Not advanced chemistry.”

“Oh!”  John goes to the shopping bags on the table and draws out a long, thin paper bag.  Casting about, he locates a beaker – clean for the first time since it left the box – and sets it on the table.  He unfolds the paper to reveal a flower, white petals nodding bell-like from a slender stem. With a flourish, he drops the flower into the beaker and steps back, arms raised.  “Tra-la.”

Sherlock rifles through his mental catalogue of plants.  The flower is toxic to humans, so he has the information ready to hand.  _“Galanthus nivalis._   A snowdrop.”

“Well-spotted.”

“Why is there a snowdrop on the table?”

“You’re a genius,” John says.  “You figure it out.”

 Sherlock purses his lips, but just as he is about to start deducing, the smell of burning eggs catches his attention. He flips the eggy bread over.  “Shouldn’t be long.”

John reaches into the shopping bags and draws out a bottle of cabernet.  Walking to Sherlock’s side, he pulls open a drawer and roots around for the corkscrew.  “Think a dry red pairs well with eggy bread?”

“I expect we’ll find out.”

Grinning, John uncorks the bottle and sets it down to breathe.  He slides an arm around Sherlock, fingers worrying playfully at the skin between his shirt and his trousers.  Sherlock turns his head and noses at the silvering threads of his hair.  He wants years of this, wants to see the silver fade to thistledown.  John turns his head, tipping his chin up, and it is a natural response for Sherlock to dip his head and kiss him – more natural than the beat of his heart.  John’s lips part on a sigh as he turns Sherlock, pressing his spine to the edge of the counter.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and blurts out, “Those psychotic little birds had the right of it.”

John stares at him for a beat, shakes his head, and chuckles.  He presses a knee between Sherlock’s thighs and pushes his weight forward, bringing their bodies flush together.  Sherlock gasps and John licks into his mouth, a slick and filthy promise.  

The spatula falls to the tile with a clatter.  Sherlock startles, hands flying off of John’s waist, and his elbow strikes the open wine bottle.  He pushes John back and whirls around just in time to see the bottle clatter down, wine gushing onto the hob in an arterial pulse.  A column of flames roars off the burner.

“Jesus Christ!” John shouts. 

Sherlock fumbles with the oven dial, but the settings are such that the flame will burn brighter before the ignition is cut.  His fingers, slippery with wine, fail to twist far enough.  The fire blazes higher and Sherlock feels his eyebrows begin to singe before John drags him back, pushes him aside, and brandishes the extinguisher.  “Get back!”

This isn’t John’s first time dealing with an open flame on account of Sherlock.  Nonetheless, by the time the fire is doused the kitchen reeks of charred eggs, the air is thick with smoke, and the oven is coated with grimy, crusting foam.

John doesn’t feel particularly amorous after that.

-

Despite the rather catastrophic failure of the Adélie penguin experiment, Sherlock soldiers on.  Just because one endeavor ended with a scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling doesn’t mean the rest are doomed to fail.  There are dozens of examples of courtship in the mammalian class of the animal kingdom. Sherlock has a veritable treasure trove from which he can choose bits and baubles at his leisure. 

So, when John returns from the clinic a few days later looking drawn and haggard, Sherlock immediately plucks a gem from the pile.  He turns over the idea, studying each facet in the flashing light of deductions whirling through his mind.  John is exhausted, frustrated, irritable.  A long day at the clinic:  two separate patients whinged at him for head colds, one hypochondriac demanded to have her scalp checked inch-by-inch for nonexistent lice, and an elderly man vomited on his nice brogues.  His hair is mussed and bruised circles hang under his eyes. 

As John shrugs off his coat and hangs it from its hook, Sherlock rolls off the sofa and crosses the distance between them with long, fast strides. John tosses him a vacant look as he toes off his soiled brogues, but he doesn’t utter a word.

Sherlock offers his hand.  “Come here.”

“What,” John begins, voice dull, only to fall silent as Sherlock takes his hand and guides him into the sitting room.  He leads John to his chair, gently nudges him to take a seat.  John sinks into the cushions with a weariness that pinches behind Sherlock’s ribs. 

“Wait here,” he says, and spins around to stride toward the loo. 

Before they became a couple, Sherlock made a point of deriding John’s more romantic tendencies.  The derision had been a natural reaction – nausea – to the poems, the holidays in New Zealand, the circus dates. 

(Well, the circus date had been a bloody good idea.  If only Sarah hadn’t insisted on third-wheeling.) 

Now, things are different.  Now that Sherlock has become the target of John’s sweet nothings, he can condone all the other nonsense.  That includes the baths.

Sherlock closes the door to the loo and twists the shower lever, surging hot water into the bathtub.  As steam fogs the mirror, he opens the cupboard above the sink.  A squat row of candles stands on one shelf, as orderly as soldiers.  He gathers a handful and places them on the rim of the tub.  The wicks are reluctant to light, damp from the steam, but eventually he has tongues of flame licking a merry line around the rising water. Lastly, he crumbles a bubble bar under the running water, tinting the water purple and filling the loo with a perfume of rosemary and lavender. 

John is still in his chair when Sherlock returns to the sitting room. His eyes are closed, chin propped on the heel of his hand.  He wakes with a startled snuffle when Sherlock touches his arm.  “What.  What?”

“Come on,” Sherlock says. 

 “Sherlock,” John sighs.  “I’m sure whatever you’ve got on is grand, really, but I’m—I’m knackered.  Can’t it wait?”

Sherlock clasps John’s hands, gives an insistent tug.  “I promise it’s worth it.”

John slants him a dubious look.  He shrugs. “Okay.  Lead on.”

Sherlock draws John down the corridor and halts before the door to the loo. If John notices the burble of running water or the herbal scent seeping out with the steam, he gives no sign of it.  His eyes are glassy with exhaustion, his expression wooden.  Sherlock nudges open the door and leads him inside.

For a moment, standing together in a haze of rosemary and lavender, watching the candle flames flicker like streetlamps on a misty night, John does not react.  Then recognition sparks in his eyes.

“Oh,” he says.

Sherlock tugs at John’s sleeve.  “Take this off.  It smells wretched.”

John sets clumsy fingers to the buttons of his shirt.  Sherlock leaves him to it, taking each garment as it is shed and folding it with care.  He sets the neat pile aside, aware of the pointlessness of that little ritual – it’s all bound for the wash, anyway.  But for some reason, it feels important to take care of John’s things.  Soon, John stands naked before him, weary and hunched and a little lost-looking.

Sherlock points.  “In you pop.”

John obeys, sighing as the violet-tinted water closes around him. Sherlock shuts off the taps as he leans back and closes his eyes.  His toes tap absently at the drain lever. 

He seems so deeply weary that his voice, quiet as a breath, startles Sherlock. “Nearly forgot.  There’s a box in my briefcase.  Could you…?”

Sherlock nods.  He is reluctant to leave John in this state, so he hurries back to the sitting room.  A suspicion nags at him as he opens the briefcase, makes his heart race – _a box, could he have, he could have, John never ceases to amaze_ – but he finds a Cadbury Milk Tray instead, no doubt purchased at the Tesco Express just around the corner.  Quashing a prickle of disappointment, he takes the chocolates back to John. 

“Ta very much,” John says as Sherlock sits beside the tub, brandishing his bounty.  His expression turns to mock outrage as Sherlock rips off the plastic wrapping, lifts the lid, and inspects the labels written underneath.  “That’s cheating.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Sherlock says, and follows the key to choose a milk-chocolate caramel. 

“You’re the world’s only consulting detective!  Surely you can deduce which is which?”

“There could be coconut in here, John.  I won’t take any chances.”

John chuckles, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes.  “’Course.  Stupid of me.”

There is a sharp edge to the words, one that leeches the humor out of Sherlock. He studies John, noting the lingering tension, the bitter set of his jaw. 

Microtus ochrogaster, he thinks.  _The prairie vole.  When their mate is distressed, a prairie vole will offer comfort in the form of grooming.  Licking – humans call it kissing, but that’s nonsense, of course – that’s another soothing behavior.  Oxytocin is the primary driver of—_

“Pass me that,” he says, pointing.

With a bemused look, John picks the bottle of shower gel off the shelf and passes it to Sherlock.  An infusion of oat milk, lavender, and tonka.  John quirks an eyebrow as Sherlock reaches for the loofah, nudging a candle aside. 

“This is all quite… soothing,” says John.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees.  “Positively soporific.”

He adds a dollop of shower gel to the loofah, works up a lather.  When he holds out a hand without a sound, John acquiesces, offering his wet wrist.  An intent look comes into his eyes as Sherlock scrubs him up to the shoulder. 

“You’re pampering me,” he says, and _oh,_ there it is: the barest hint of a smile.

“Well done,” Sherlock says.  “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

“Cheeky,” John mutters.  He swipes his forefinger through the suds on his bicep, places a clot of bubbles on the tip of Sherlock’s nose.  Sherlock retaliates with a brush to the cratered flesh of John’s scar; John shivers as the deadened nerves respond, a miswired telegram. 

“Okay?” Sherlock asks, wiping the bubbles off his nose.

“Not bad, exactly,” John says.  “Just… hm. The rest is lovely.”

Sherlock uses his free hand to shove the chocolate into his mouth, chewing ponderously.  His fingers are sticky and warm as he selects another candy from the box and presses it into John’s hand.  “Praline.”

John pops the chocolate into his mouth and shakes his head with a grin. He gestures to the candles, the tinted water with a helpless sort of chuckle.  “This is ridiculously decadent, you know.”

Sherlock runs the loofah down his spine, pleased by the curve of vertebrae moving together like chain links, of the supple shift of muscle under the suds. “I’m indulging you so you can indulge me.”

John watches him for a long moment, smile fading.  “You’re very good to me.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice being horrid to you,” Sherlock says, and the words are meant to sound flippant, but they don’t, they don’t at all.  It’s as if the hypnotic work of scrubbing has loosened his tongue.  “It only follows that I’d be adept at the opposite.”

“I mean it.  You really are.”

Sherlock says nothing.  It occurs to him, a little absurdly, that he could ask John to marry him now.  He has no ring, no tender words, no notion of dates and times and the myriad details that go into marriage. 

He still could ask.  The only important thing is that John says _yes._

John tilts his head.  The firelight wicks off his skin, daubing orange and yellow over the pastel light reflected off the water.  His skin looks like a sunset.  He reaches out, fingers wet on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and pulls him in.  The kiss is soft, chaste until suddenly it isn’t, until desire kindles in the cloying heat between them and Sherlock is cupping John’s face in his hands and kissing him back with startling intensity.  Water sloshes over the rim of the tub as he leans forward, needing to be as close as possible.

“Take off your clothes,” John says, and Sherlock scrambles to comply.  Each garment puddles on the floor until he stumbles into the tub, naked and hard, folding himself around John.  They’ve tried this sort of thing before, with mixed results – someone inevitably slips, cramps, gets shower water sprayed in their face.  The bath is not nearly as conducive to fucking as Sherlock would like, but right now he’s too desperate to care.

John’s eyelids flutter as Sherlock settles between his spread legs, arching his spine to mold every possible point of bare skin to bare skin.  His arms wind around Sherlock and his hands clutch at his arse to bring their cocks into alignment.  They settle into a clumsy rhythm, their twinned moans accompanied by the splash of bathwater. 

“Faster,” John grunts.  “Sherlock, I need you to—”

Sherlock tries to thrust faster, but he hasn’t got the leverage.  He throws a hand over John’s shoulder, aiming for the rim of the tub, but his shaking hand knocks into one of the burning candles.  The candle topples sideways, hot wax smearing over his hand, and he yelps and twists away. The sudsy porcelain offers no friction and his knee slides, throwing off his center of gravity, and John’s slick fingers grasp and slip as he topples forward to bash his nose against the lip of the tub, just to the left of John’s head. 

First, there is only pain, stunning and white-hot.  Then Sherlock tries to drag in a breath and finds his nose clogged with the stink of iron.  He rears back and clasps a hand to his face.  Blood gushes from his nose, dribbles down his lips. 

“Shit,” John gasps.  “Wait, let me—”

“Id’s fine,” Sherlock says in a mushy voice.  “Dode—dode bodder—”

He draws his hand back to find a disconcerting amount of blood on his palm. “Fug.”

“Hang on.”  John tries to hoist himself up and only succeeds in slipping around like a greased pig. His flailing foot catches the shower lever and cold water jets down upon them in an arctic deluge.  Sherlock and John yelp in unison.  John’s hands skitter around the rim of the tub, knocking the last few burning candles into the water, and amidst the splashing and shouting, he cries out, “Ow!  Fuck! My leg!”

Later, Sherlock will reflect on variables in experiments.  The prairie vole is far from an endangered species, so presumably their mating habits are successful.  Clearly the blame lies at Sherlock’s feet.  If prairie voles had to contend with baths and candle flames, they would probably be extinct.

-

Some animals show their devotion with gifts or grooming.  The white-tailed deer ( _Odocoileus virginianus_ ) doesn’t bother with such sentimentality.  Rather than bestowing trinkets and affection, white-tailed deer fight for the right to a mate.  While most of the dullards in humanity defer to social norms, nature knows when bloodshed is a necessity. 

(That being said, Sherlock is not prepared to adopt all the courtship patterns of the white-tailed deer.  He has no interest in keeping a harem; he has only one buck in mind.)

On a chilly, drizzling Friday evening at a pub in Soho, Sherlock finds himself seated beside John in a state of sour drunkenness.  Lestrade and his cronies are out for drinks after successfully wrapping up a case, and John has invoked his Boyfriend Privileges to force Sherlock to attend.  The Boyfriend Privileges are rigid and unyielding.

“Here you are, lads,” says Lestrade, plopping two foaming pints down on the table.  John takes his with an appreciative nod; Sherlock scowls, affronted by the banality of Lestrade’s choice.  The DI sits beside a blushing Molly Hooper and raises his pint with a grin.  “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” John echoes, taking a hefty swig.  Sherlock sips primly at the foam in his glass.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Lestrade tells Sherlock.

“Obviously.”

“Hush, you,” says John, slinging an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and mashing clumsy lips against his cheekbone.  He is rosy and exuberant after three drinks, and handsy to boot.  “He means ‘thank you.’”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”  John drops a hand under the table and squeezes his knee.  “You do.”

The touch promises Sherlock a reward later for good behavior, so he nods, plastering on a false smile.  John calls it his ‘maniac smile.’  “Right. There you have it.”

Molly giggles tipsily and slips a hand into Lestrade’s with a shy smile. Sherlock grimaces, but his disdain is cut short by the appearance of a ruddy, middle-aged man swaggering toward their table.  His bleary gaze is locked on John.

“Hullo, ‘andsome,” he says, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder. 

John cranes his neck to give the man a puzzled look.  His faculties muddled by drink, he defaults to polite incredulity when Sherlock thinks a punch in the mouth would do quite nicely. “Do I know you?”

“Nah,” the man slurs.  “Would’ja like to?”

“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock growls.

“Sorry, mate,” Lestrade says.  “That one’s taken.”

The ruddy man requires a truly moronic amount of time for his vacant gaze to detach from John and alight on Sherlock.  “Wot, this ugly fucker?”

Sherlock tightens his grip on his glass, stung.  He is no stranger to vicious remarks, but his defenses have been crumbling over the past few hours, weakened by a Guinness and two ciders. After the disastrous bath incident, his nose bloomed into a lurid riot of bruises and have since wilted into sour yellow and acid green.  The swelling has mostly gone down, but Sherlock still gets double-takes from strangers. 

John glares at the drunk, all pretense of civility forgotten.  He sets down his beer and pushes back his chair, but Lestrade beats him to it.  He stands, rounds the side of the table, and sets a firm hand on the drunk’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you back to the bar, yeah?  Before John here gives you a bloody nose.”

The drunk blinks, befuddled, as Lestrade ushers him away from their table.  Molly glares at the drunk's retreating form.  “What a twat.”

John hums in agreement and lifts his drink.  A muscle twitches in his jaw, a lingering tick of anger.  His hand moves under the table to find Sherlock’s, fingers threading together. 

Evidently drinking makes Molly eager to gossip.  She turns a look of mixed pity and vicious glee on Sherlock. “He’s full of shite, Sherlock. He’s got half your height and twice your gut.”

John laughs, a little forced.  His fingers tighten around Sherlock’s.  “And no concept of taste.”

Molly coos as Sherlock gives John a wan smile.  “That’s quite enough, you two.  I’m a grown man.  No need to coddle me.”

John licks his lips, smears a bit of foam off the corner of his mouth.  The anger has mostly dissipated, but the next kiss he plants on Sherlock’s cheek is a little firm, a little declarative.  “I’ll coddle you as much as I damn well please. I’ll coddle you _so bloody hard_.”

Sherlock takes a hefty swig of beer as Molly giggles shrilly.  Once her tittering has subsided, Sherlock adds, “And you’re wrong about one thing.  He might be a boorish drunk, but he _does_ have good taste.”

“You two are adorable,” Molly sighs.  “I’m jealous, really I am.”

“You should be,” Sherlock says.  “John is a much better lover than George.”

John raises his eyebrows.  “And how would you know that, hmm?”

“I’m a genius.”

“Well,” Molly says, pursing her lips in a façade of prim contempt.  “I don’t know who George is, but Greg is _very_ skilled with his tongue.”

“That’s my cue,” John says abruptly.  He drains his glass with a few hefty gulps, pushes back his seat, and totters toward the bar.

Molly places a hand on Sherlock’s wrist.  “You are _so_ far gone on him.”

“And you have a predilection for stressing words like a teenager when you’re sozzled.”

“Don’t be obsti… ob… bloody pig-headed,” Molly says.  “I know you, Sherlock Holmes.  You’re mad for him.”

“Brilliant observation,” Sherlock says.  “We’ve only been romantically involved for a year.” 

Molly rests her chin on her hand and smirks.  “Cheeky.  You can’t dis… throw me off so easily.  You’re hiding something.”  She leans forward, her large, brown eyes narrowed.  Sherlock tries to look neutral, but something in his expression must betray him, because her eyes widen.  “Oh.  Oh!”

“What,” Sherlock grits out.

“Are you?” she murmurs, almost to herself.  She gasps.  “You are!”

Sherlock stares at her, utterly shocked.  Beyond her capacity as a forensic expert, Molly has never shown a special aptitude for deduction.  Even when she was standing in for John, she was a mediocre substitute at best.  Perhaps Sherlock had misjudged her.  Perhaps Molly is far cleverer than he ever gave her credit for, hiding a sharp deductive intellect behind a guileless gaze. 

The thought rankles him.  “Spit it out, whatever’s got you so excited.  I’ll be happy to prove you wrong.”

“You’re going to ask John to marry you.”

The simplicity of those words hits Sherlock like a slap.  He can hear his own mouth – ready with a premature denial – click shut.  Molly is practically vibrating with delight.  “Have you got a ring?  A plan?”

“No,” Sherlock manages, a little strangled, “and no.”

She waves off the two crucial aspects of a marriage proposal like gnats. “Oh, he’ll love whatever you do. He’s in… inflatulated with you!”

“Er.  Quite.”

“Sherlock.”  Molly leans forward, eyes intense with the solemnity of the very drunk.  “John Watson is _mad_ for you.”

Sherlock reaches for his drink, feeling more flustered and exposed than he has ever been in front of Molly Hooper. “Yes, thank you.  That’s enough.”

Molly reaches for her glass and tips him a lascivious grin.  She’s like a yo-yo, veering from one emotion to another before lurching back.  “How’s his cock?”

“Right,” Sherlock says.  He pushes back his chair and stands.  A drunk Molly, he decides, is both formidable and horrifying to behold.  “I’ll go check on John and Gilligan, shall I?”

He stalks toward the bustling bar, heralded by Molly’s indignant cry.  “It’s Greg, you pissflap!  Wait, Sherlock—wait!”

Sherlock lengthens his stride, determined to put as much space between him and Molly as possible.  He nears the bar, eyes picking over the dull detritus of humanity in his search for John. A television is mounted to the wall above the bar, showcasing a football game.  Lestrade sits in the neon glow of the screen, elbows on the bar and neck craned to watch.

Sherlock shoves through a throng of drunks and clears a space at Lestrade’s side. “Where is John?” he shouts. 

“Sherlock!”  Molly’s voice behind him, strident and slurred.

“Hm?”  Lestrade glances around the bar in alarm.  Evidently a detective of London’s best and brightest has not noticed John’s absence. “Oh.  Christ.”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters, and turns to scan the bar.  Through the crush of bodies and the stippled strobe of club lights, figures skate into obscurity like fish darting silver-swift through dark waters.  John sits at the opposite end of the bar with an empty pint before him.  His eyes are on the telly, but as Sherlock draws nearer, he recognizes a removal in the blue gaze that suggests his focus is turned inward. His shoulders drop and he lowers his right hand to rub the knuckles of his left with a forefinger.

A figure staggers into Sherlock’s peripheral vision and makes a beeline for John. Before Sherlock can intervene, the figure – oh, _Christ,_ the ruddy drunk – stumbles to John’s side.  He bellows something at John, who feigns deafness and averts his gaze.  The drunk hesitates, swaying, and deductions click into place before Sherlock can stop himself. 

_Closeted.  Only has the courage to approach other men when drunk._

Sherlock waves the deduction away, frustrated with himself.  He wants to sneer, wants to snarl and disdain.  The last thing he wants is to pity. 

Then the drunk’s face darkens and he grabs John’s shoulder, spins him around to shout in his face.  John reels back and the drunk shoves at him, knocking him off his barstool.  Fury boils through Sherlock, drowning the pity in an instant.  He shoves through the crowd, ignoring protests as his uses his elbows to fullest effect.  He reaches the drunk in moments and seizes his shoulder, wrenches him back. 

The drunk sneers and shrugs off Sherlock’s hand.  “What’s it to you, cocksucker?” he bellows.  “Can’t share?”

Molly flutters over like a flustered bird, hands reaching out to steady John.  Her lips move, but the roar of the pub drowns out her voice. 

He draws up to his full height and glowers at the drunk.  “Piss off.”

“Thought you poofs were all about freaky shite,” the drunk fires back.  Sherlock can feel an idiot-induced migraine coming on.

“That’s enough,” John shouts over the din.  His eyes widen when he catches the look on Sherlock’s face.  “Sherlock, don’t—”

But Sherlock is just shy of drunk and, by that metric, leagues away from the realm of reason.  His arm pulls back of its own accord, fingers curling into a fist.  Fury snaps down muscle and bone as he throws the punch, aiming squarely for the drunk’s ruddy, pock-marked face. 

And stares in utter disbelief as the drunk ducks out of the way.  His fist flies over the drunk’s head, an inescapable trajectory, and cracks into the only other person in his path.  Which happens to be Molly Hooper.

That is the story of how Sherlock punches Molly in the face, and how, subsequently, a very drunk Lestrade gives Sherlock a black eye to match his bruised nose. The ruddy drunk attempts to tackle Lestrade to the floor, but his trajectory is off and he crashes into a femme lesbian, prompting her butch girlfriend to throw a haymaker at his head.  John grabs Sherlock’s shoulder in one hand, Molly’s in the other, and steers them out of the melee.  After checking to make sure Molly isn’t seriously injured – “I’m fine, really, it’s only a split lip—oh, that is quite a lot of blood…” – he offers her a wadded-up tissue and an apology before dragging Sherlock out of the club. 

Violence, Sherlock decides, is not the way to woo John Watson. 

-

Growing desperate, Sherlock decides to try a novel research technique: sex. 

Before John, he would never have considered such a method.  Before John, sex had been a vague interest at best – a clammy, too-close discomfort.  Before John, the concept of one person finding their perfect match in another had seemed ridiculous, a fantasy of the romance-addled masses. 

After, though… after that first incredible, breathtaking time, when John had opened him and unraveled him and held him close as he shuddered and fell apart, Sherlock understood.  John sets him alight in a way nothing ever has – not drugs, not the Work, nothing. 

Sentimentality aside, Sherlock secretly hopes if he gives John a truly spectacular orgasm, he’ll be so high on oxytocin and vasopressin that marriage will seem perfectly reasonable.

The sea slug ( _Siphopteron_ species 1) is hermaphroditic, possessing both male and female anatomy.  When they mate, sea slugs fight for the right to act as the male. The winner stabs his/her mate with his/her penile stylet, fertilizing him/her.  There is also quite a bit of head-stabbing involved, which is hypothesized to induce a kind of mind-control or behavioral change. 

Sherlock isn’t particular about who gets stabbed with a stylet in this scenario, but he would like to avoid any Dahmeresque brain mutilation.  John’s brain is slightly more advanced than a sea slug’s, and besides, he banned Sherlock from drugging him ages ago.

One evening, while John is out at the shops (a clever ruse on Sherlock’s part – bless John’s sweet, technologically-challenged heart, they don’t _need_ an Ethernet cable), Sherlock prepares.  He jumps into the shower and scrubs himself red-raw, paying particular attention to certain bits he hopes John will play with.  _Extensively._ After that, he washes his hair with the shampoo and conditioner John prefers (jasmine-scented, prompts John to smell his hair roughly 23% more often than usual).

Shower completed, Sherlock dries his hair and styles his curls to buoyant, shining perfection.  A careful application of concealer covers the lurid bruises from the last two mating debacles.  He dumps his t-shirt on the floor and pulls on his sweatpants, leaving the drawstring loosely-tied so the waistband threatens to slip off his hipbones.  A burgundy dressing gown completes the ensemble. Sherlock sprawls across the sofa with one arm thrown over his head, mimicking the pose of what’s-her-face from Titanic.

(John’s idea.  Sherlock was more interested in the body count than the romance, though he did enjoy repeating the car scene with John.)

He must have dozed off mid-seductive pose, because the next thing he is aware of is the _snick_ of the front door closing and John’s footfalls crossing the threshold.  He yawns and rubs his knuckles against his eyes, then remembers himself and scrambles to look more alluring.

John turns from hanging up his coat.  His eyes land on Sherlock, move over him like the press of hands.  Heat pools in Sherlock’s chest. 

“Oh,” John breathes.  He slips off his shoes and crosses the room, eyes fixed on Sherlock.  Sherlock’s heart begins to drum against his sternum as John leans down, brushes aside the lapels of the dressing gown.  “Well.  Hello, gorgeous.”

Sherlock cups his hand around John’s elbow and draws him close.  John goes into his arms smiling, huffing a ragged little breath against his lips.  Then they are kissing, slow and sensual and deep.   

John pulls away.  “Hm. Dinner first, I think.”

Sherlock glares, affronted.  _“What.”_

“Oh, yes.”  John stands and tugs Sherlock to his feet.  “You’ll like this.”

Apparently, John developed a sense of initiative in the midst of his wild-goose chase for an Ethernet cable and took a detour to Sainsbury’s.  He has brought back an eclectic bounty, including oysters, asparagus, watermelon, and chocolate bars.  Sherlock watches, puzzled, as John turns on the oven, washes off the asparagus, and tosses it in a mix of olive oil, parmesan, and salts. He sets the timer for fifteen minutes and points to the watermelon.  “Start slicing that, will you?”

Feeling mutinous, Sherlock finds a knife and sets to work.  He wanted a good shag, not a meal.  The minutes slide by until the oven timer dings and John takes out the asparagus, beaming with pride.  He prepares each plate with a few spears, generous slices of watermelon, and half a chocolate bar.  Then he starts on the oysters.

“Aren’t those meant to be chilled?” Sherlock asks, feeling vindictive.

“It was chilly outside.”

 John positions an oyster shell with the hinge facing toward him, inserts a butter knife, and twists until the shell snaps open.  He pushes the knife through, severing the muscle, and lays the open shell on a serving plate.  A dash of cayenne pepper and lemon juice seasons the jellied flesh.

Sherlock makes a face.  “That’s foul.”

“It’s an oyster,” John says, as if this weren’t patently obvious.  “A culinary delicacy.”

“It looks like phlegm.”

“Ta for that mental image.”  John lifts a shell, studying the meat apprehensively.  An impish grin stretches his lips.  “Phlegm is a bit off the mark, if you ask me.”

“Oh?”

John waggles his eyebrows suggestively.  “It slightly resembles a… hmm.”

_“What?”_

“Well.”  His lips twist, fighting back a giggle.  “A fanny.”

Sherlock side-eyes him judgmentally.  “Very mature, John.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of an invertebrate, love.”

“It’s a bivalve mollusk, if you’re going to be specific.  And I’m not jealous,” Sherlock sneers.  “I’m mortified.  All this time, I’ve been under the impression you’re a grown man, but evidently you are actually twelve.”

John snickers, unbothered.  “D’you know, I’ve never had oysters?”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Never got around to it, somehow.  Well.” John tips back his chin and slurps down the flesh a little awkwardly.  He gulps, mouth twisting.  “Huh. Texture’s a bit weird, but it’s not so bad.  Bit… briny.”

Sherlock twists his lips and pokes his oyster with a wary finger, drawing back when the flesh quivers alarmingly.  He wipes his hand on his sweatpants.  “Disgusting.”

“Don’t be a baby,” John says, spearing a chunk of watermelon on his fork. “Eat up, now.  I want you getting those amino acids.”

Sherlock blinks as a piece of data shudders someplace deep in his Mind Palace: a book on a dust-covered shelf, untouched for years.  “What?”

“Amino…”  John trails off, a preoccupied look coming over his face.  He frowns and sets down his fork.  Touches his throat, coughs.  His breath thins into a reedy rattle.  “Oh. Oh, shit.”

An edge of panic carves through Sherlock’s sullen mood.  “John?”

“Sher…”  John coughs, slaps his chest.  “Hosp…” He sucks in a wheezing breath and blows out the word like a spitball through a straw.  “Hospital.”

Sherlock stands so quickly his chair clatters to the floor.  John makes the mistake of trying to stand, too, but his feet tangle beneath him and he topples sideways, face gray.  Sherlock races to his side as he fumbles his mobile phone from his pocket and dials 999.  “John.  John!”

John, as it happens, is severely allergic to shellfish.  Fortunately, the paramedics that arrive to collect him are not complete morons.  As the siren wails and EMTs load John into the truck on a stretcher, the lead paramedic takes one look at his ashen face, jumps into the back, and emerges with an EpiPen.  He tears off the protective cover and jams the EpiPen into John’s outer thigh.

“Load him up!” he bellows.

Sherlock clambers into the truck behind John, glaring daggers at the EMT who begins to protest.  He folds himself into a seat beside John’s prone form, staring down at his slack features with mute horror.  His complexion is beginning to look a little less corpselike.

“Don’t worry, sir,” one EMT offers.  “Your husband will be right as rain in no time.” 

He’s new to the job, clearly a bit green, and Sherlock wants to snarl at him, but that would take away precious seconds from watching John.  He contents himself with laying a hand on John’s and twisting their fingers together.  Listening past the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, listening as John fills his lungs and the reedy whistle fades.

John comes out of the ordeal with both his life and a healthy respect for the horrors of oysters.  Once the panic has passed, Sherlock finds he has rather mixed feelings.  On the one hand, he knows John will never again subject him to the snotty monstrosities.  On the other, he can’t help but feel a bit… betrayed.  Oysters and sea slugs share the same phylum.  It’s as if his own research has turned on him, one family bent on vengeance for the death of another.  Instead of spending the night shagging, Sherlock is sitting beside John in a dingy A&E outpatient room, offering his exhausted boyfriend water from a Styrofoam cup while his arse grows numb on a hard chair. 

 _Maybe this proposal is a bad idea,_ he thinks glumly.  _If I keep it up, I may accidentally kill us both._

-

One of the most difficult parts of research is knowing when to end it – to admit failure, close the notebook, and begin the next study.  It is not in Sherlock’s nature to quit, but after the oyster disaster, he finds it easy.  Sherlock would rather keep John alive and whole in their current arrangement than marry him and risk anaphylactic shock. 

And so, a few days later, Sherlock finds himself in a contemplative state of sorrow as he and John stroll side-by-side through Hyde Park.  John keeps a brisk pace, cheeks flushed with the chill and silver-gold strands of hair tousled by the wind.  To look at him, you would never guess that he almost choked fatally on sea-phlegm.  Small mercies.

Sherlock reaches down and tucks his hand into John’s, gripping tightly.  John glances at him and the corners of his mouth twitch up.  His hand squeezes back, threading their fingers together. 

He could ask him now, Sherlock thinks – ask John to spend the rest of their lives together.  To become an irrefutable fact, a truth no one can doubt.  He hasn’t got a ring and he hasn’t got a plan, but he thinks John might marry him anyway.  If he asks.

They turn a bend and walk toward the Serpentine without a word between them. The waters are slate gray, reflecting the steely cold of the cloud-shrouded sky above.  Spring is a ways off yet, and skeletal tree branches stretch their fingers out to shadow dead grass and patches of slush.  They stop at a bench and John beckons Sherlock to sit beside him, hands clasped as they stare out across the water.  A bitter breeze whistles through the air and Sherlock crinkles his nose at an unexpected scent:  herbal, fresh.  Familiar. He looks at John, who shoves a hand into his trouser pocket with a sheepish grin.

“What…”  Sherlock begins.

“Oh, look,” says John, pointing toward the Serpentine.  A pair of swans glide across the across the water, circling one another with hypnotic grace. 

Their tranquil beauty catches Sherlock off-guard.  He exhales a sound, half-breath, half- _oh._   He mentally flicks through the information compiled in his research.  _Cygnus olor._  

“They mate for life, you know,” John says, as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts. “That’s why they’re a symbol of love.”

Sherlock clears his throat.  “Ridiculous. They have no concept of romance. Swans mate for life to ensure the success of their offspring.  Nothing more.”

Chuckling, John nudges Sherlock and runs a thumb over his knuckles.  “You can’t fool me, Sherlock Holmes.  Deep down, you’re a hopeless romantic.”

Sherlock scoffs, but he leans over and presses a quick kiss into the tawny-silver of his hair.  John casts his gaze across the water.  The swans are facing each other, necks bent and foreheads touching. 

“It’s a myth, you know,” John says.  “About them being strong enough to break a man’s arm.”

“Yes.  Pity. I had hoped that would work its way into a case before I knew better.”

“Which was when?”

“I was six.”

John shakes with silent laughter beside him.  “Of course.”

They sit for a time in silence, watching the swans glide across the Serpentine.  They are resident swans, never migrating, always at home in London.  Together for life, a pair as immutable as the city itself. 

Dusk falls and John disentangles himself, stretching.  “M’knackered.  You ready?”

Sherlock nods and stands, helps John lever to his feet.  As they trudge down the path, he darts a glance over his shoulder, hoping past a thin veneer of disdain.  The swans are floating out of sight, tail feathers flicking idly as they make their way back to the nest. 

“So,” John says, “I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

The non-sequitur tugs Sherlock from his musings.  “What?”

“Thought I was being clever.  Romantic. But I got caught up in the pageantry of it all.”  John tips him a wry grin.  “I can see why you love drama so much.  It’s fun.”

“Deflecting, John.”

A tight smile.  “Right. Did you know oysters, asparagus, watermelon, and chocolate are considered aphrodisiacs?”

“Of course.”  Sherlock had known it in theory, of course, but it is to his great mortification that he failed to see what was literally right in front of his eyes – on his plate, in all its phlegmy glory.  “I was distracted.  By you nearly dying.”

“Of course.  As you should have been.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Well.  Maybe a little.”

They walk for a time, the noise of London fading into a hum beneath the tumult of thoughts whirling in Sherlock’s mind.  Now that he’s stopped focusing on his own mad scheme, each deliberate step John has taken comes into stark relief. 

“The box of chocolates,” he says.

John chews on his lip.  “Bit obvious, but yes.  Don’t think you’ll need an interpretation for that.”

“And the snowdrop.”

“Scandinavian Valentine’s tradition.”

“Ah.”  His brow knits.  “You do know the _Galanthus nivalis_ symbolizes purity, yes?”

“Rest assured, I’ve been working very hard on sullying your purity.”

Sherlock cocks his head.  “I hadn’t noticed.  Perhaps you should make a… bigger effort.”

“Bugger.  Here I was bringing you flowers and chocolates when I could’ve been shagging your big brains out.”

“Terribly selfish of you.”

Chuckling, the two lapse into a companionable silence.  Darkness settles swiftly, cloaking the streets in shadows cast by the glow of streetlamps.  Even as night falls over London, the lifeblood of the city pulses on, drumming a rhythm of clattering car wheels and footfalls on pavement.  When they reach the flat, John opens the door and ushers Sherlock inside.

They climb the stairs, John trailing behind Sherlock, their fingers hooked together at the last knuckle.  After they slip off their shoes and hang up their coats, John asks, “Come with me?”

Sherlock follows him into the bedroom.  John stands before the bed with a smile, sheepish and soft.  Compelled by an instinct he cannot parse, Sherlock climbs onto the bed and folds on his side.  He shoves a hand under the pillow and looks up at John, expectant. 

John bites his lip to ward off a grin.  “This is.  Um.  On your back, yeah?”

Sherlock complies.  “You truly are a master storyteller, John.  I’m breathless with suspense.”

“Shut up.”  But there is a smile in his voice as he steps closer.  “Close your eyes, love.”

Sherlock closes his eyes.  He hears fabric rustle – and then the scent returns.  The fresh herbal scent, the one that had nagged at him that morning, weeks ago. The trace wisp he had caught at Hyde Park.  Sherlock waits, eyes shut as the faintest touch sweeps across his pillow.  The herbal scent intensifies in a tidal rush of memory, of lazy morning kisses and the sandpaper rasp of John’s voice.  _Any interesting dreams?_

A feather touch alights on Sherlock’s brow and he fights the urge to peek. “Wait,” John murmurs.  “Just… wait.  What are you thinking of?”

“I’m thinking this is more than a little bit odd.”

“Yes, well.  After that?”

Affecting a disgruntled sigh, Sherlock humors him.  He can think of only one thing, one person.  One thin mouth, pliable yet stern.  One pair of hands, mending and guarding and coaxing in their turn.  One set of eyes, steady and keen and shining with hard-won mirth.

One man.

“You,” Sherlock says.

The feather touch lifts from his brow.  “You can open your eyes.”

Sherlock opens his eyes.  John is kneeling beside the bed, twirling a leaf between thumb and forefinger.  Not just any leaf, Sherlock notes – a _bay leaf,_ of all things.

“ _Laurus nobilis,_ ” he recites. “Bay laurel.  Often used for cooking.”

“Well-spotted.”

“Are you… making a pot roast?”

A smile tugs at John’s lips.  “No.”

Sherlock lifts his head, brow furrowed.  Four more bay leaves rest of the pillow, one on each corner.  Propped on his elbow, he pokes the leaf in John’s hand with a demanding finger.  “Explain.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?”  John’s smile grows a touch brittle. 

The realization banishes Sherlock’s amusement.  “You’re nervous.”

“Um.  Maybe a bit.” John clears his throat and shifts closer on his knees, eyes downcast, the bay leaf spinning a chaotic pirouette. His fingers shake as they settle on the bedclothes.  “This is. This is a lot.”

In that instant, it occurs to Sherlock that John is not merely nervous – he is _afraid._   That’s wrong, that’s all wrong.  John is the brave one, the soldier.  John invaded Afghanistan.  He protects Sherlock from the foulest scum of London.  He watched Sherlock leap to his death and bore the sharp sting of Mary’s betrayal and he kept going.  Sherlock draws his strength from John.  Now, John’s fear creeps over him like oil on still water. 

He covers John’s hand with his own.  “What are you afraid of?”

John sets his jaw and speaks with wincing, rapid-fire determination.  “It’s a tradition, the bay leaves.  From the 1700s.  A woman would pin bay leaves to her pillow before going to sleep.”  He reaches out, picking up each corner leaf and dropping it into a pile.  He brushes the last one against Sherlock’s nose – an attempt at levity – before consigning it with the rest.  “When she slept, she would…”  He falters. Soldiers on.  “She would dream of her future husband.”

Sherlock blinks, stunned, because John has done it yet again.  Surprised him.  Despite the clues, as plain as the scent of bay leaves, Sherlock hadn’t anticipated this outcome.  He had become obsessed with the laws governing biology, the mating rituals that have dictated animals’ survival for thousands of years.  Blindly pursuing his own research, he’d ignored the obvious: that John might want him, too.  That _John_ might propose to _him._  

“Oh,” he exhales.  “ _Oh_.”

“We don’t have to, of course,” John says, stumbling headlong into excuses.  “We can carry on as we have been.  I’m fine with the way we—I love the way we are, really.  And I know I’ve—I’ve cocked it up before.  Marriage.  But if…” He pauses and squares his shoulders, raises his chin.  His eyes burn with love and courage and just a little bit of fear.  “Sherlock, you are the most incredible man I’ve ever known. You are brilliant and beautiful and… the most human human being I’ve ever known, and if you—”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurts out.  He drags John into a fierce kiss, claiming the protest on his lips before it can take shape.  John kisses him back, twining his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and tilting his head to slant their mouths together.  Moments spin past, heady but brief, before John pulls away. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” he says, voice frayed.

“I had the gist of it.”

“Really?  I was just going to ask if you would marry me.”

Sherlock widens his eyes in feigned shock.  “Oh!  Well. There’s the egg on my face.  I just thought you were listing my many charms.”

John rolls his eyes.  “You are such a cock.”

“I believe your favorite endearment is ‘madman.’”

John laughs and shakes his head.  He looks at Sherlock, a soft smile playing about his lips.  “You are.  My madman.”

“Better,” Sherlock concedes.

“Will you?  Marry me, I mean?”

Sherlock clears his throat, his imperious façade crumbling under the onslaught of emotion: amazement, disbelief, overwhelming love.  “Yes, John.  I will.”

A smile of pure joy stretches across John’s face.  He lowers his head, bites his lip.  “That’s.  That’s good. Erm.”  He clears his throat and continues, voice a trifle thick.  “That’s… great.”

“Could be nice,” Sherlock says.  His attempt at levity is just as shoddy as John’s, the emotion behind the thin veneer just as intense.  “And keep me from getting bored.”

“Shut up, love,” John says fondly, and crowds forward on bended knees to kiss him quiet. 

They continue like that for several minutes, John climbing onto the bed and straddling Sherlock’s hips as deep, lazy kisses stoke the embers of need into a hungry flame.  John is unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt when the ring of a mobile phone interrupts them with shrill insistence.  Cursing, Sherlock digs his mobile out of his pocket and glances at the screen. Lestrade. 

“Might as well,” John pants.  “Tell him to piss off if it’s anything less than a nine.”

Sherlock thumbs the ‘answer’ button on his mobile.  “This had better be important.”

“Oh, it is.”  Lestrade’s voice thrums with excitement.  “You know your hunch about the zookeeper at the tiger exhibit?”

Sherlock stares at John in amazement.  There is no possible way this moment could be any more perfect, not with the memory of John’s proposal steeping the air on the scent of bay leaves.  But this may just be the cherry on top. “Yes?”

“You were right,” says Lestrade.  “He was in the bloodsicles.  And that’s not all – the lab’s just rang back.  There were two sets of human DNA in the tigers’ leftovers.”

“The killer,” Sherlock gasps.  Still straddling his lap, John shoots him a beleaguered look.  Sherlock pinches the crease of his thigh and John slaps his hand away.  “Just one moment, Lestrade.”

Sherlock lowers the phone, ignoring the DI’s protests.  “John, when we get back in this bed, I want you to shag me through the mattress.  But a man’s been dismembered and put into ice lollies for tigers, and I think I know who the killer is.”

He watches as John grapples with lust and horrified amusement.  “Ah.  I-I see.” He clears his throat.  “Yeah, all right.  Sounds fun.”  He reaches for his t-shirt and begins tugging it back over his head.  “Think of it as an engagement gift.  Since I haven’t got a ring yet.”

“I love you, John.”

“I love you too, you mad creature.  Now, let’s go catch a killer.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: For more delight featuring Sherlock’s (or BC’s) inability to pronounce “penguin,” check out cwb’s “The Very Unlikely Existence of a Flightless Bird in a Tuxedo.”
> 
> The word “pissflap” is borrowed from Bohemian Rhapsody, which you should all watch. 
> 
> I’m not an expert on preparing oysters, but some sources say eating them raw is okay and some say it isn’t. Don’t take my word for it. 
> 
> All the info on animal mating habits and obscure Valentine’s Day traditions comes from Google. Please don’t fact-check me too rigorously.


End file.
